


Surviving

by Grimes420



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Multi, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22013344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimes420/pseuds/Grimes420
Summary: Clarke Griffin is a medic in the modern-day war to quell the insurgence of an autonomous state--Arkadia, led by a fierce dictator. When what was once an easy, one-sided battle to reclaim the city turns into a violent defeat, Clarke's abilities are put to the test to save the injured, including the Commander of the forces.
Relationships: Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Surviving

The sky was on fire.

Typically, this line conjures images of a beautiful sunrise or sunset; clouds lit aflame by the lowering sun, or maybe one could imagine a meteor shower, bits of space darting through the atmosphere.

But no, the sky was 100%, literally on fire.

Flames licked and danced overhead in the dark sky as Clarke peaked behind the hastily constructed canvas tent, mud painting its faces, sirens wailing overhead, as they had been for the last couple of days. Gunfire could be heard in the distance, beyond the city skyline—the city that the army she was a part of was sent to liberate. In the past, it was called Boston, but that was before the war. Now it’s known, to those recognizing its sovereign rule, as Arkadia. Or what’s left of it, anyways.

The ground troops—Grounders, as they called themselves—were making steady progress. Clarke had hardly anything to do, other than organizing rations. Maybe only one or two soldiers were being sent to her daily for medical treatment, be it a gunshot wound or burns, but nothing too extreme. Her colleagues on the front must be handling things exceptionally well.

“Enjoying the sights?” The voice startled Clarke, who had been staring at the glowing cityscape deep in thought.

“Shut up, Murphy.”

“I mean, I gotta give it to you—it’s kinda pretty.”

“It’s war, Murphy. It’s not beautiful.” She glared to her right, where John Murphy stood with a rifle propped up on his foot, barrel down. “Handle that gun properly or I’ll tell your supervisor. Don’t you have some boots to finish shining?”

Murphy rolled his eyes. “Calm down, Griffin. The safety is on. Quit acting like I’m stupid.”

“Sorry, I’ll just act like you barely graduated from Boot Camp.” Murphy squirmed in his uniform, still in pristine condition. Suddenly, the sirens halted. The air became thick with silence as Clarke became anxious to her very core.

“That’s not fair, they had it out for me.”

“ _Shut up, Murphy.”_ Clarke enunciated, pushing Murphy aside and beelining to the commanding officer. Others in camp noticed the tension and became to swarm as well. Wiggling and squirming her smaller frame through the crowd, she raised her voice. “Sir, what’s going on?”

“People, people!” Kane shouted above the growing commotion; greying beard dotted with sweat. “We just received word from the frontline: an ambush was waiting for them. It’s been the opposition’s most advanced counterattack yet, and we suffered some casualties, as well as injuries.” His face furrowed with worry. “Please, report to your stations and keep your radios close.” This ushered most of the crowd away, but stragglers remained, including Clarke.

“Sir,” she began again. “How many in need of medical attention?”

“That’s unknown at the time, but just…be prepared, Griffin. Time to put your genius to the test.” He dismissed her, giving attention to others shouting questions, asking about the status of specific peers or about how much this would set back their efforts. Clarke knew better—these were questions that nobody could possibly know the answers to at this moment. Her focus shifted to the work that needed to be done; prepping medical supplies, ensuring enough cots were set up to accommodate this turn of events, and, most importantly, mentally preparing. The ease of this mission so far was weighing on her heavily and she struggled to grasp the weight of the impending influx of patients.

Back in her tent, she scooped her radio receiver off the table in the back and set the channel to the one her peers—the other medics out in the field—used to communicate.

“Hello? It’s Griffin, what’s going on out there?”

Static. Deafening white noise filled her ears, and she prayed for a response from someone. After what seemed like an eternity clutching the receiver, knuckles white with tension, a voice echoed through the vast, dark tent.

“Clarke?” _Whew._ Her heart lightened.

“Jackson?”

“Clarke…it’s a bloodbath out here. Both sides, yeah, but…”

“What’s going on? How far out are you guys?”

“About twenty minutes. But Clarke, some of our own were lost, and Abby was shot—don’t tell Kane yet, he shouldn’t panic. But what you do need to tell him is that the Commander was hit too. She’s bleeding too much to treat here.” The heaviness in her stomach and head returned, intensified.

“Get back here, fast. Be careful. We need to triage and just…” Clarke drew a deep breath, exhaled, and continued, in a firm tone. “…just do our best.”

“Roger that. Brace yourself, we’re coming in hot.”

Clarke returned the receiver to its home and started out before, out of the corner of her eye, saw a figure curled up underneath the cot near the entrance.

“Hello?”

“Heeeyy, Griffin. How’s it going?”

“Murphy?”

“Yeah?”

Pausing, she continued through the flap, shouting behind her, “Never mind, stay there for now.” Keeping busy kept the anxiety setting in, so she jogged as fast as she could to Kane’s tent. Inside it was hectic, people buzzing around, reporting in with squads and D.C. on radios. Clarke slid past them swiftly, to the front where Kane was barking orders into different receivers.

“Sir, it’s the Commander. I was told to report that she’s been seriously wounded.” Kane froze despite the panicked noises coming from both of his radios.

“She’s your main priority, Griffin. You have to save her.”

“Yes, sir.” Turning on her heels, she faced the tent flaps, yet hesitated, considering the possibility of telling him that his wife, her colleague, had also been hurt, but she knew Kane—he’d throw all of his responsibilities aside to race to her, to help her, and she couldn’t let that happen. With more attention and speed than she had committed to this effort thus far, she prepared for the shitstorm that was about to strike—tens, if not hundreds, of people would rush in, injured or panicking, looking for loved ones. She had to maintain composure facing these working conditions, or lives would be lost. After shooing Murphy out from under the cot, she wheeled them all into organized rows to make the system easier. Supplies found new homes outside of their cupboards and bags, instead placed neatly on trays and wheeling tables. Finally, Clarke tied up her waves of blonde hair into a crude bun to keep it out of her face. Suddenly, she found herself with nothing to do, so she exited her tent, seeking fresh air to clear her head.

So, she stood outside, in the frigid air, watching the road into town that they had reclaimed just weeks prior. Time passed slowly, with only calming deep breaths there to occupy her time. Minute by minute, thunder pounded in Clarke’s ears, keeping time with her heartbeat, which was heavy in her chest. She realized how hungry, how tired, and, frankly, how unprepared and unqualified she was to deal with this, but it was too late. From behind a large building came a swarm of soldiers running for their life. Some carried their comrades on stretchers next to them, and leading the pack, in front of hundreds of soldiers, was Eric Jackson, carrying who Clarke could only assume to be the Commander. With not even a second thought, her legs pushed her down the stretch of road to meet him and assess the situation. Hundreds of yards went by in an instant as she caught up and began to run alongside him.

“Be honest, how bad is it?” She asked, glancing back and noting many more stretchers and soldiers cradling injured limbs, blood on many of them in varying degrees of coverage. The smell of gunpowder clung to them and dirt covered them in places that blood didn’t. She took control of the stretcher from Jackson to give him a brief moment to recover.

“Bad. But we got this—from what I’ve seen, we still have a few medics able to help, despite Abby. But she should live, at least. Just a shot in her shoulder, I think.” Jackson took frequent breaths between words and phrases, absolutely exhausted. But this night, Clarke feared, was just getting started. She looked down at the patient on the stretcher; her helmet was lost, her dark hair falling free over the edge, her eyes closed and face grimacing from pain. Her hands rested at her abdomen, where anyone would assume she had been hit.

“He wants you to save her, right?”

“Yeah.” Clarke sighed. Jackson looked at her, gravely, yet confidently.

“If any of us could do it, it would be you. We can handle the others.” Clarke nodded, already planning her course of action once they were to arrive. Kane—the Commander’s second in charge—gave clear orders; Commander Lexa T. Crue had to be saved. 


End file.
